sofa of hair, the curtains of chintz, and all that appertains to the master and mistress of the house, of solid but ancient make. But the square piano, the endless succession of baskets, card-racks, etc., the footstools with the worsted-work dog and cat thereon emblazoned, the album and other books, so neatly and regularly placed round the table, and above all, three heads in very bad water-colours that adorn the walls—all proclaim the superior education of the daughter of the house, and her aspirations after modern gentility.

We will just take up the thread of the conversation of the mother and daughter at the end of it, and see what conclusions they have arrived at. In a somewhat doggedly excited tone, Miss Janetta says,—

'Well, mother, I know that father would be very angry, and that she might give us all low Irish fever. I shouldn't wonder if she brought a famine with her.'

'Remember, Netta, who said "and if ye have done it unto the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."'

'If those people are one's brethren, as father says, the sooner we disown our relations the better.'

Whilst Miss Janetta was uttering this unchristian speech, and greatly shocking her mother thereby, a young man entered with a book in his hand, and throwing himself on the sofa, began to read. It was soon, however, evident that he was listening to the conversation, although he professedly kept his eyes on his book. Poor Mrs Prothero continued her efforts to enlist her daughter on the side of charity, but did not greatly prevail. The young man did not interfere, probably being aware that it is better to let two women finish their own quarrel.

Again, however, they were interrupted by the appearance of a fourth, and more animated personage.

'Good evening, Mrs Prothero. How do you do, Netta?' exclaimed the new comer, shaking Mrs Prothero's hand, and pulling Netta's curls. Hereupon the young man arose from the sofa, and bowing profoundly, said,—

'Good evening, Miss Gwynne,' with a tone as grave as his appearance.

'I beg your pardon, Mr Rowland,' said the young lady, who we now introduce in form as Miss Gwynne of Glanyravon Park.

With a very becoming grace, she advanced and held out her hand to Mr Rowland Prothero, eldest son of the good farmer and his wife, just returned from Oxford. Mr Rowland slightly touched the hand, bowed again gravely, and placed a chair for Miss Gwynne.

'I thought I should never come here again,' said that young lady, turning from Mr Rowland with a nod and a 'thank you,' and retreating towards the window where the mother and daughter were standing, 'what with the rain, and poor papa's nervous complaints, and all the affairs, I declare I have been as busy as possible.'

'Now, Miss Gwynne, I am sure you will agree with me,' cried Netta, suddenly brightening up and getting animated 'Do you think it right to encourage those Irish beggars?'

'Right! no, of course I don't.'

'And do you think people ought to allow them to come into the house—to take them in, and to—to shelter them in short?'

'Decidedly not. I hope you don't do such things, Mrs Prothero?'

There was a wicked twinkle in a merry eye as this was said.

'The truth is, Miss Gwynne,' said Mrs Prothero, slowly rubbing her hands one over another, 'there is a poor Irish girl in the barn almost dying, and it is impossible to send her to the Union to-night, or to leave her where she is.'

'Oh, I'll write an order for the Union in papa's name. You can't believe a word those Irish say. You had better get her sent off directly.'

This was said with the air of command and decision of one not accustomed to have her orders disputed.

'But, Miss Gwynne, if you only knew—' began the overwhelmed Mrs Prothero.

'I know quite well. We are obliged to commit dozens of them as vagrants, and I should not at all wonder if we should not be compelled to have you taken up some day for harbouring suspicious characters.'

The tears stood in Mrs Prothero's kind eyes. She had not much authority amongst the young people apparently.

'There, mother! I knew Miss Gwynne would agree with me.'

'And do you think the law of Christian charity would agree with you, Netta?' here broke in a grave and stern voice from the sofa.

Both the young ladies coloured at this interruption? Miss Gwynne with mortified dignity, Netta with anger. Mrs Prothero cast an appealing glance at her son, who came forward.

'She may have my bed, mother,' said the young man, colouring in his turn, as he met Miss Gwynne's defiant glance, that seemed to say, 'Who are you?'

'How very absurd, Mr Rowland,' said that young lady, laughing scornfully. 'I suppose, according to your law of Christian charity, we must fill our houses with all the Irish beggars that come through Carmarthenshire! A goodly company!'

'Have you seen this poor girl. Miss Gwynne?'

'No, certainly not, but I know by heart all she has to say.'

'If you would but just see her,' said Mrs Prothero entreatingly not daring to contradict the heiress of Glanyravon Park, who had a will of her own, if Mrs Prothero had not.

'With the greatest pleasure; but I know all the "my leddy's," "yer honour's," and "the sweet face o' ye," that I shall hear.'

'Don't go, Miss Gwynne, you may take the fever. I wouldn't go for the world,' cried Netta.

'I am not afraid of fevers or anything else, I hope,' said Miss Gwynne contemptuously. 'You will be afraid of catching a toothache from infection next,' and herewith she left the room, followed by Mrs Prothero.

During their short absence, Mr Rowland Prothero read his sister a very proper lecture for a clergyman, on Christian charity and filial obedience, to which she listened with pouting lips and knitted brow, but with no answering speech, good or bad. She was not silent because she had nothing to say, but because she was afraid of her brother, who was the only person of whom she was afraid. Her feelings, however, found vent in the leaves of a rose that she was pulling to pieces and scattering ruthlessly.

The lecturer on Christian charity was a tall, gentlemanly-looking young man, whose apparently habitual gravity of deportment warmed into earnestness and animation as he talked to his sister. He looked and spoke as if his soul were in the words he uttered, and as if it had been choice and not compulsion that led him to become a minister in Christ's family.

The entrance of Mrs Prothero and Miss Gwynne was a great relief to Netta. She looked up briskly at the latter, as if sure of sympathy, and if eyes full of tears could give it, she certainly was satisfied.

Mr Rowland Prothero perceived the tears, and retired to his sofa, taking up his book and pretending to read.

'Can I help you, Mrs Prothero? There does not seem a moment to lose. I will send for a doctor, or do anything I can,' said Miss Gwynne.

'Thank you, dear Miss Gwynne,' replied Mrs Prothero, 'I will put her in Owen's room.'

'Who can we get to bring her in? Shall I go and fetch one of the men? Netta, do get some one to help us.'

'I will help you, if you will allow me,' said Mr Rowland, rising from his sofa, and looking at Miss Gwynne with a glance of warm approval.

'Pray do; now; at once. I will go with you whilst your mother prepares the room. You could carry her quite well, for she is as thin as a ghost; I never saw such a wretched girl.'

Miss Gwynne hurried to the barn, followed by Rowland. They found Gladys with a farm-servant by her side, apparently either dead or asleep.

Rowland Prothero knelt down, and took her up gently in his arms, Miss Gwynne assisting. The poor girl unclosed her eyes, and looked wistfully at the face that was bending over her.

'You are with friends, and in God's hands,'said Rowland gently, as the eyes languidly reclosed.

He carried her upstairs to his brother's room, and having placed her on the bed, left her to the care of his mother and Miss Gwynne.